


Hematophilia (It really does look black in the moonlight)

by Chaotic_Smutty (Anna_Hopkins)



Series: Kinkterror, 2019 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Kink, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Dark Harry, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kinkterror, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paraphilias
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2020-11-22 12:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Chaotic_Smutty
Summary: (Kinkterror 2019, October 1: Blood / Gore)In the summer of his fifth year, Harry's nightmares about the resurrection stop being nightmares and start being... something else.





	1. Introspective

_ "[...]Behavioral explanations propose that paraphilias are conditioned early in life, during an experience that pairs the paraphilic stimulus with intense sexual arousal. [...] once established, masturbatory fantasies about the stimulus reinforce and broaden the paraphilic arousal." - Wikipedia _

~

If one was Harry Potter, one would consider it entirely normal to have continued nightmares about the Third Task in the summer after the fact. What was not normal, however, was the feeling in Harry's gut when he woke up; a tension he could not identify.

At least, he couldn't identify it at the time. Midway through the summer, however, while preparing lunch in the kitchen at Privet Drive, Harry dropped a knife and -- with his Seeker instincts -- reached out to catch it, unthinking, and caught the blade in his palm.

Then he stood, blinking, down at the deep cut, watching red well from the line and drip-drip-drip onto the floor in loud, messy splatter. Mesmerized.

That night, having managed to will his hand uninjured with magic, Harry dreamt of the Third Task again; his gaze fixed on the way the blood poured from the cut in the crook of his elbow, where Wormtail had made it, even after the vial was pulled away.

He woke up sweating, flushed, and _ hard. _

_ Oh, _ Harry thought, biting his lip. _ So that's what it was. _


	2. Apprehensive

Knowing that his nightmares had developed into this... interest... was one thing, but Harry didn't anticipate being able to explore it any further while he was still doing backbreaking labor at the Dursleys'. He sighed internally and went on with his days, pushing the topic out of his mind, and this worked very well for a while.

Then dementors happened.

He reread the letter from the Ministry announcing his expulsion from Hogwarts. His hands were shaking with the force of his grip on the parchment. Somewhere, distantly, his aunt and uncle were talking, he thought; he could barely hear anything. His vision had narrowed to the contents of the letter.

Expelled. He was expelled. He would never return to Hogwarts.

His wand was in his pocket, soon to be snapped. He didn't even think about it, stepping over to one of the drawers in the kitchen. Everything was so very far away, right now. Harry reached into the drawer and closed his fingers around the handle of one of the knives inside, the one he had cut his hand on before; he wanted to... wanted…

He turned to look at Vernon when the man shouted his name. The knife was still in his hand, and there must have been something in Harry’s expression, because his uncle  _ recoiled _ , paling, eyes wide and alarmed.  _ He thinks I’m going to -- _

To cut him. To bring the knife up to his throat and  _ slash _ , blood spraying out and spilling in great gouts onto the floor.

Harry shuddered with the force of his own, sudden want. His pulse was racing, excited, but when he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. “I’m going to be leaving soon,” he said softly, but clearly. “I’ll be getting my things now.”

He walked past Vernon to get to the hall, the knife still in his grip, held tightly at his side, and when the man threw himself out of Harry’s path, Harry thought about what it would be like if he turned to him, if he raised the knife and stabbed its sharp point into his uncle’s bulging belly and  _ dragged it through _ .

There would be so much blood if he did it. Everywhere. Even more than slitting his throat would have yielded. And -- it’d be on his hands, wouldn’t it, hot and dark, pooling on the floor. Harry could imagine it, the way it would stain his skin so red, and. And.

Someone was breathing heavily. Harry realized it was him. He let his imagination fade, turning away, and climbed the stairs to his room without a second glance at his relatives. He packed the essentials quickly, methodically, thinking about where he might go to hide. While he was retrieving food from under the loose floorboard, an owl arrived on the windowsill, and another, and Harry thought he might have been angrier about how this was playing out, if he didn’t have other things on his mind.

Some time later, he returned downstairs to inform the household of his change in plans, and a while after that, when the yelling was over and the Howler had finished its message, Harry sat on his bed with the knife in his hand, remembering what it could do.

Daydreaming.

His undefinable desire settled, for now.

(It would not be forever.)


	3. Explorative.

The knife stayed with him through the move to Grimmauld Place. In the excitement of the first day or so, Harry nearly forgot he had it, hidden away neatly in a pocket of his satchel, wrapped in clean rags he'd torn from an old shirt. It was the night before the trial, when he couldn't sleep no matter how much he tried to, that he rummaged around in the bag and found it again.

Harry unwrapped it, clutching it to his chest as he hid under the blankets; but daydreaming wasn't enough to calm him, this time. He couldn't focus well enough to  _ imagine; _ should he use the knife? He sat up, and raised it to the crook of his elbow, where a thin silvery scar remained from the last time. From the ritual.

Revulsion shuddered through him, like ice water, and Harry nearly dropped the knife, shaking his head. He dragged himself out of bed and tiptoed into the hall, away from his sleeping friends, the rewrapped knife tucked into his pocket beside his wand.

The grandfather clock in the hallway read just after one a.m.; all the lights in the house were off. Harry made his way down the stairs, careful not to let the floors creak underfoot, and snuck into the dark, silent kitchen.

He whispered, "Kreacher?"

The ornery house-elf appeared a minute later with a pop, staring at him with bulbous eyes narrowed. "Harry Potter, summoning Kreacher in the middle of the night? Kreacher wonders what Harry Potter could want at such an hour..."

Harry sat down heavily in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, running his palms over his thighs. "I need... I need some blood," he said in an undertone. "I don't care what kind, but fresh --"

Kreacher's eyes had gone wide, brightening; his face contorted into what could be considered a smile, in an abstract sense. "Kreacher is surprised, yes, pleasantly surprised." The elf drew nearer, peering up at Harry assessingly, and nodded to himself. "Harry Potter is asking Kreacher for blood, and perhaps... perhaps Kreacher can find some, if Harry Potter waits a few minutes..."

The elf disappeared without a sound, this time, and Harry glanced at the clock on the wall -- one-fifteen -- before leaning back in the chair to wait.

Minutes passed. Harry drummed his fingers on his legs. The anticipation was getting to him already -- how long was this supposed to take? Another glance at the clock -- one twenty-two. He swallowed, fidgeting, looking around the room while he waited.  _ A few more minutes, _ he told himself,  _ a few more minutes and you'll have it -- a whole jar's worth, maybe -- _

He realized he hadn't specified how much he needed. What if Kreacher only brought him a vial? Or what if... what if Kreacher brought  _ more? _ A gallon... a cooking pot full of it... Harry shuddered, biting his lip, gripping the arms of the chair.  _ What if it's a bathtub full? _

_ That  _ was an idea. A whole tub full of blood -- he could just, he could just get  _ in, _ couldn't he, and feel it on his skin, all around him, all over him --

Beside him, on the table, there came the sound of heavy glass set down on wood. Harry turned, finding a long-necked bottle, corked, on the table. The lights in the kitchen began to produce a dim glow; just enough for him to see the dark liquid inside. Harry sucked in a soft gasp, pulling the bottle into his arms, and shuddered in delight to find it was still warm.

"Kreacher had not expected such a request from Harry Potter," muttered the house-elf under his breath, out of sight. "When Harry Potter needs more, he knows to ask Kreacher again..."

"What kind is it?" Harry found himself asking. It was obviously not unicorn blood, but it could be anything.

"Harry Potter says he does not care what kind of blood," Kreacher observed, "and now he asks Kreacher anyway..."

"Well?" Harry's gaze flickered between where Kreacher had appeared in the corner of the kitchen, and the cork at the neck of the bottle he was holding.

The elf let out a deranged little laugh. "Does Harry Potter want it to be something specific?"

_ ...Did _ he? Harry uncorked the bottle, sticking his nose right over the top to breathe deeply of the rich coppery scent of its contents. He shifted in his seat, hastily corking it again.

"...Human," he whispered, lips barely moving.

"Then young master Potter gets what he wants," Kreacher said softly. "Kreacher is leaving young master to his own devices, now..."

A shiver ran down Harry's spine. He caressed the neck of the bottle, feeling the heat of the blood inside. He got up from the chair on unsteady legs, and made his way back upstairs, but not into the bedroom he was sharing with the others. Instead, he opened the door to the bathroom, locking it behind him, and, stripping down, got into the tub.

A single candle was more than enough to illuminate the bathroom for Harry's purposes. Fingers trembling in his excitement, he uncorked the bottle once again, and, tipping carefully, poured some out into his other palm.

"Oh," he breathed. The heat, the slow wet dripping of it down his hand, down his arm, it was  _ perfect. _ He felt dizzy with it, sagging back against the porcelain. The sight of the blood on his skin was sending Harry's own blood southward; he could feel that warm, pleasant ache growing in his abdomen.

His mouth had gone dry. Harry licked his lips, thinking.  _ What if I...? _

Slowly, tentatively, Harry raised his bloody hand to his lips. He opened his mouth, just a little, and put the tip of his finger on his tongue.

Flavor bloomed instantly -- metallic, slightly sweet, a hint of salt -- over his tongue. Harry moaned around the fingertip, throwing his head back against the lip of the tub, and took the finger deeper, licking and sucking it clean. He did the same with the other fingers, one by one, and trailed his tongue down in between them, over his palm, down his arm --

He wanted more. Fumbling one-handed for the bottle, Harry popped the cork off with his thumb. He didn't care if it was wasted -- he upended the bottle over his neck and chest, feeling and hearing the blood pour down and over with little 'glug-glug-glug' sounds from the bottle. Warm, wet, and  _ sticky, _ oh Merlin he loved it, the bottle was empty and it was all over him, sliding down and down.

He followed the red path with his fingers, finding small puddles of it left behind in the hollows of his collarbones, a sticky smear in his belly button that --  _ oh, fuck _ \-- dribbled down lower when he jostled it. The muscles of his stomach flinched and twitched under his slippery touch, when he dared bring them lower; he quickly plunged wet fingers into his mouth again to stifle a moan.

Finally, he could wait no longer; Harry's toes curled against the bottom of the tub as he reached to take himself in hand. He closed his eyes, gripping lightly, then more firmly; with each slow stroke from base to tip, displaced blood trickled out of the way in thin, warm streams, down the outsides of his thighs and lower between his legs. He wanked faster, vague fantasies forming and collapsing with each ecstatic slide of his slickened palm.

_ What if someone caught me like this? _ came the thought deep in the haze of his arousal. He gasped, shuddering, back arching at the idea. He couldn't imagine any of his friends catching him at the moment, not Sirius or an Order member. The vague silhouette of a stranger, maybe, standing, looming, over the tub and watching --

"Nngh!" Harry bit his lip, thumbing the slit, and came in great spurts all over his stomach and chest. His limbs splayed out, exhausted, in the next moment; he lay there, chest heaving, in the afterglow, until his legs had stopped trembling and he could run the hot water to clean himself up.

Another hour later, he towelled off, pulling on a robe that had appeared on the door, and stumbled back to his room with his clothes bundled in his arms, the knife among them. He'd rinsed out the empty bottle and left it beside the tub.

He was asleep almost the minute his head hit the pillow.


	4. Digestive

When he awoke some hours later, jarred out of a deeper sleep than he usually managed, Harry realized that he had forgotten to wash the blood out of his mouth. Its sweet metallic taste lingered pleasantly on his tongue, in the crease of his lips, between his teeth -- when he dragged himself out of bed, fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand, he saw, in the bathroom, the traces of red his indulgence left behind.

He regretted having to brush the evidence away.

Some time later, having washed up and made the daily attempt to comb his hair, Harry returned to the room he and Ron were using. Ron was, as usual for this time of day, unconscious, undisturbed, and sprawled over his own bed against the opposite wall. Harry turned to his bed, intending to neaten it up, and found the job already done; Mrs. Weasley must have done it when she laid out the freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt which sat at the foot of the bed.

But as he reached for the T-shirt, Harry's hand brushed against dark, silky fabric laying atop the Muggle wear: a set of robes, nearly invisible in the dim ray of sunshine that made it past the window drapes. Curious, Harry lifted up the robes instead; shiny buttons glittered when they caught the light. Underneath the more flowing outer layer of the robe was a pair of trousers and a button-up shirt, in black and dark grey, respectively, and a pair of long socks. He squinted at the floor by the foot of the bed and found a pair of shiny boots there.

The ensemble was nothing Harry owned, that was for sure. But it looked like it would fit him. Had... had Kreacher laid this out for him?

That was when he noticed the knife sitting on his pillow, its blade gleaming. Polished. Cleaned. Harry realized he had lost track of it sometime in the course of the night -- Kreacher had found it, then, and done Harry no small favor in returning it before any of the Order might have. Harry reviewed the set of robes laid out before him and felt the need to respond in kind.

It was as he was doing up the last of the complicated fastenings on the sleeves of his outer robe that Harry glanced over at Ron's still-sleeping silhouette in the morning light, and had the abrupt and nerve-wracking realization that if the hearing went badly, he wouldn't be joining the redhead at Hogwarts. The very idea of being kicked out -- wand snapped, magic taken from him -- sent a bolt of anger down Harry's spine that had him clenching his fist around the handle of the knife and stuffing it in his pocket. He would leave it behind when he went to the Ministry, but until then, it was staying where he could keep a hand on it, as needed.

Taking a deep breath, Harry made his way quietly out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Muffled voices reached him through the wood of the door; unsure of their identity, he opened it, finding Ron's parents, Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks at the table. They looked up from their breakfasts, varying degrees of exhaustion obvious in their faces; Mrs. Weasley rose to her feet, brows jumping as she saw what he was wearing.

"Oh, Harry, you look lovely!" The Weasley matriarch bustled about, adjusting his robes. Harry flinched at the sensation of cold water on the back of his neck; she was attempting to comb down his hair. "Smartened up very nicely, dear!"

"Are those my old robes?" Sirius wondered, peering at Harry across the table. He grinned, looking years younger for the expression. "I s'pose it'll leave an impression, won't it?"

Mr. Weasley side-eyed Harry's godfather, murmuring something about 'making the  _ right _ impression'. Sirius, if he heard the man, ignored him.

Tonks yanked a seat out from the table for Harry. It collided with the seat beside it, toppling it; Harry picked it up and then sat down beside her.

Immediately, before Mrs. Weasley could finish listing off the breakfast options, Kreacher popped into the room and laid a plate and silverware out in front of Harry. It was on significantly fancier china than the Order normally used for meals -- and bore a spread the likes of which Harry had only ever seen in magazines. Glistening green beans almondine; thin potato crisps that smelled fresh out of the oil; a scrambled egg with tomato mixed in; sauteed mushrooms in a rich sauce; and several dark slices of a coarse sausage that Harry immediately recognized as... black pudding.

His mouth watered at the scent wafting off the dish. Harry didn't even notice the curious looks he was getting from the others present; he lifted the silverware that had appeared beside the plate and cut a piece of the black pudding, bringing it up to his lips.

It was unfathomably delicious. Harry bit back an actual moan at the taste.

His eyes closed, briefly, in rapture. In that moment, Harry remembered what Kreacher had said in the night.

_ Young master gets what he wants. _

And black pudding... was made with blood.

Harry had the most wonderful image for a moment of a place setting at a feast, with the goblet at his plate full of deep, rich blood, and repressed a delighted shiver.

Only after he'd polished off the last of the food on his plate did Harry look up and realize he was being stared at. Sirius looked vaguely envious; the others, just confused.

"I remember when we used to do full breakfasts," his godfather sighed, reaching for a piece of bland toast off Tonks' plate. "S'pose Kreacher is getting back at me by showing me how good I could have had it."

"I could... share next time?" Harry offered, insincerely.

Sirius snorted. "Eh, let him spoil you 'til he gets tired of it. Keep him distracted while we clean the rest of the house."

Harry shrugged, reaching for the glass of water that had just appeared by his empty plate. Around him, the adults resumed their conversation as if he weren't there, and not long after that, he and Mr. Weasley were departing for the Ministry.


	5. Invective.

Frankly, Harry was glad they decided to use the Floo instead of going to the Ministry 'the Muggle way' as Mr. Weasley had apparently intended. (It occurred to Harry to wonder why that would be considered a smart move, when just days ago they had made a production of getting Harry out of Privet Drive.) He could only imagine what it would have been like trying to take the Tube into London with Ron's father -- they would probably have stopped several times just to admire the machinery.

Instead, owing in part to the likelihood of getting unwanted attention from Muggles while Harry was dressed in the robes Kreacher had tailored for him, they took the Floo. It was no less bothersome an experience as any other time; Harry stood up from where he'd fallen out onto the hearth, brushed the soot off his robes with no small embarrassment, and -- realized the knife was still in his pocket. He'd forgotten to leave it at Grimmauld Place.

He was... carrying a weapon into the Ministry of Magic. _ In his pocket. _

Swearing loudly within the confines of his own thoughts, he let none of his reaction show on his face. Harry let Mr. Weasley guide him through security, wondering what would happen when they caught him with the knife the entire time -- but the golden rod the security wizard waved over him passed right by his pocket without reacting.

Either his pocket was somehow magical, or wizards didn't consider kitchen knives dangerous enough to raise any alarm. Harry rather doubted it was the former --  _ and given that wands exist, it would make sense not to be impressed by a knife. _

Though it would be best not to question the weapons policy out loud.

So they went on to the lifts, Harry with both his hands in his pockets. Mr. Weasley explained about enchanted windows and animated flying memos and conversed with Kingsley Shacklebolt under his breath while they more loudly held a detached conversation about Ministry things; and Harry let it all wash over him without really listening, losing himself in the calming, repetitive slide of the pad of his finger over the flat of the blade.

Perkins, Mr. Weasley's coworker, met them midway down the corridor to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office to inform them of the schedule and location change for the hearing. Harry briefly wondered if they would have ended up being late to the hearing, had they arrived via Muggle transit -- when he wasn't internally panicking and rushing back to the lifts.

A man called Bode joined them on the way down, who stared unblinkingly at Harry once Mr. Weasley mentioned him. He stared, and stared, and Harry let his own gaze see through the eerie wizard, casting his thoughts back to the fantasy of slitting Uncle Vernon's throat -- and the much more vivid and enticing memory that followed, of the blood Kreacher had brought him just last night.

( _ Does Harry Potter want it to be something specific? _ The rush of warm metallic sweetness on his tongue. Licking his fingers clean of red.  _ Human, _ he'd admitted in no more than a whisper. The burbling noise of the bottle emptying, the splash of heat over his chest and down. _ Then young master gets what he wants. _ Tickling trickles of blood down his thighs, the tension in those muscles as he got close --)

Mr. Weasley's urgent voice jolted him from the reminiscence. Harry took one last glance at Bode as they departed the lift.

The wizard winked.

Curiosity about Bode slipped from Harry's mind nearly as quickly as the blood had slipped through his fingers, once he opened the doors into Courtroom Ten. The room was all too familiar to him from the Pensieve memory he'd seen in Dumbledore's office less than a month ago, and less intimidating by its familiarity, he thought, or else he'd probably have been trembling when he took his seat in the chained chair before the plum-robed witches and wizards in assembly.

As the trial -- not a hearing, a  _ trial, _ and no one had informed him of that -- went on, Harry grew more and more annoyed with the proceedings: pointed lines of questioning, being interrupted before he could explain anything, the stares he was getting from the assembly, having to crane his neck up to look at them at all. It was all such utter  _ bollocks, _ and Fudge was the worst of it, Harry thought, flapping his jowls about.  _ What if I slashed at them, though? _ came the considering thought. Jowls, or maybe forehead -- the blood would run down Fudge's flabby face, running along the creases like a stream between cobblestones. Weren't head wounds the ones that bled the most? Oh, yes, he could smash Fudge's skull with the handle of the knife, or just with his fist even, and watch red leak out --

Dumbledore chose that moment to sweep in like a whirlwind, turn Harry's situation around, and sweep out, all without looking at him. Harry couldn't find it in himself to be disappointed at the disinterest; he rose from the chair and left the courtroom when he was dismissed, feeling light on his feet and giddier than he had in days. He grinned at Mr. Weasley in the corridor outside, telling him the good news, and they walked together back to the Atrium so he could Floo to Grimmauld Place again.

Except Lucius Malfoy just  _ had  _ to be in the corridor to ruin Harry's good mood, didn't he? The annoying, pointy berk just  _ had  _ to open his mouth, as bothersome as his scrap of a son, and deliver taunting words to Harry's ears that didn't really parse.

Here, Harry thought, was someone he might particularly enjoy bleeding dry.  _ If I slit your throat, Lucius, would you bleed as blue as you think you should? _

From how Mr. Weasley's grip on his shoulder tightened, and the older Malfoy faltered, widened eyes betraying his alarm, Harry discerned he must have spoken that last thought aloud. He gave a slow, lazy blink, staring Lucius directly in the eyes, challenging. "Ah, pardon me," Harry murmured in a high, breathy voice. "Slip of the forked tongue, and all."

Soundlessly, the wizard mouthed, 'forked?'. Harry stared a moment longer, just to unnerve him, before breaking eye contact and continuing down the hallway at an easy pace.

Once out of earshot, Mr. Weasley asked in an undertone, "What on earth gave you the idea to say that, Harry?" He seemed the most overtly alarmed out of anyone so far, from his tone.

But Harry couldn't have explained it if he'd tried. Rather, lacking an answer, he just shrugged.


	6. Interlude: Pensieve.

A particular suite of rooms on the third floor of Malfoy Manor had lately resumed their occupancy by Lucius Malfoy's most feared houseguest. The Dark Lord had laid His claim upon the rooms since Lucius' grandfather controlled the estate; and Lucius had approached the doors to His study with fear ever since he was a child. The decade of their disuse had not changed this; indeed, the magnitude of Lucius' fear had doubled in the Dark Lord's absence and subequent return.

But it was a different emotion that the Malfoy patriarch now felt, standing shakily before the handsome wooden doors to the Dark Lord's office. The usual intimidation had not quite  _ gone  _ anywhere, per se, but become the background to a new and unwelcome unsettlement.

"Enter, Lucius," came the voice projected from within, and he did. The Dark Lord had changed the color of the study again since his last report: the walls were a deep red, now, uncharacteristic of His usual tastes.

“Have a seat, Lucius,” the Dark Lord gestured to a chair opposite His by the fire. “Tell me, how was the Ministry today?” Lucius recognized his lord’s good mood, and did as he was told, relaying the day’s progress with the Wizengamot and the Ministry’s internal restructuring and budget changes. But he faltered, having reached the Potter incident, and the atmosphere of the room shifted, less welcoming now. Lucius carefully kept from shivering at the change.

“Something has clearly left you unnerved, my servant,” the Dark Lord murmured, eyeing him with curiosity. “What has gotten so thoroughly under your skin?”

“Well, my lord,” Lucius began.

Voldemort listened with a growing interest as his follower explained what had happened. Harry Potter, making such a direct violent threat? He could not ever recall hearing such things about the Boy-Who-Lived before; and even the direct violence against him had been only in the moment. Never premeditated.

“Then he attempted to pass it off, my lord, as a ‘slip of the forked tongue’,” Lucius was saying, distressed, when there came a distinctive pattern of knocks on the door and one Broderick Bode slunk into the room still dressed in his Unspeakable robes, bending into a deep bow when the door closed. Voldemort held up a finger to forestall the rest of Lucius’ fussing over what Potter might have meant, and to his satisfaction, the blond shut up immediately. Then he gestured to his other servant to rise from his bow and join them at the fireplace, conjuring another chair.

“Bode,” the Dark Lord murmured in greeting, raising an eyebrow. “It has been some time since you made a report in person. I imagine it must be quite serious.” Bode had been, after all, one of his earliest spies among the Unspeakables, preceding even Augustus Rookwood; unfortunately, his oaths had taken much more strongly than to Augustus, and he had become largely useless of late, barring the occasional ‘gift’ of classified artifacts or notes. ‘Some time’ since his last visit was more accurately termed ‘several years’.

“Urgent, but it may not be quite so serious, my lord,” Bode amended in his low, sad voice. “I had a strange encounter at the Ministry on the way to my department, with the Boy Who Lived —”

"Did he threaten you too?" Lucius exclaimed. Voldemort threw a scathing glare at the blond for the interruption; Lucius quailed beneath his gaze, falling silent once more.

"I was not threatened," Bode answered, gaze unwavering from the Dark Lord's as he spoke. "But my lord recalls this servant’s heightened sense of smell?” Voldemort nodded. “Potter had… traces of blood on his breath.  _ Human _ blood, my lord.” In the background, Lucius failed to stifle his shocked gasp. “There were no elements of vampirism in his scent; but his eyes were… odd, somehow. I could not piece together just what about them…”

“The memories, then.” Voldemort retrieved his basalt Pensieve from its place on the shelves, and his servants obeyed the order, pouring wisps of silver into the basin. The Dark Lord bade them wait while he perused the memories for himself.

Bode’s first:  _ the Ministry lifts, brief greetings to Potter’s Weasley escort, and — _ how peculiar.

Voldemort was decades and kilometers removed from life on London’s streets, magical and otherwise; but he had not lost his keen eye for people. He had once been more than capable of determining the contents of a passerby’s pockets at a glance; and he still was, so he could say with certainty that —

“Potter had a knife in his pocket,” he informed the two wizards as he rose from the Pensieve. Lucius paled, no doubt realizing the legitimacy of the boy’s threat. (Did he notice, Voldemort wondered, that he had been standing within range of the blade, as well?)

He returned to the Pensieve to view the rest of the memories, then replay them; and it was on his third watch that Voldemort placed the source of the ‘oddity’ of which Bode had spoken, regarding Potter’s eyes.

Very briefly, in both encounters, the Boy-Who-Lived’s green irises had threaded through with a vibrant, almost luminescent  _ red _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, Broderick Bode was under the Imperius, not a Death Eater or sympathizer. This is not the case for this fic.


	7. Accumulative.

A week later found Harry sitting on his bed in his new bedroom, playing with his knife to try and settle his thoughts. He had barely let it go since the morning of his return to the Ministry.

At the time, given the awkward silence that had developed between him and Mr. Weasley on the lifts up to the Atrium, punctuated by the man's wary looks, Harry had expected Professor Dumbledore to show up and lecture him nearly the minute he'd gotten home to Grimmauld Place. He'd worked his stomach into knots just thinking of the reprimand, the way he sometimes had at the Dursleys' if something broke -- even though he knew the Headmaster wouldn't  _ injure  _ him for a mistake.

But Dumbledore had, once again, failed to meet Harry in person; the lecture came in the form of a letter, one which hardly contained scolding at all. Instead, the old wizard's loopy handwriting explained the concept of  _ intrusive thoughts, _ of all things, and advised Harry on how to keep them to himself, hinting at future lessons on said 'keeping' once term started. He didn't even seem  _ surprised  _ that Harry had been thinking violent things.

A small, ever-suspicious part of Harry wondered if it had to do with the fact that Dumbledore was avoiding him.

The Headmaster's letter had also advised Harry to stay inside Number Twelve for the remainder of the summer -- for his safety, of course. This would have been much easier were the house not so dim and dreary; it really was a  _ grim old place. _ (Sirius had heard the pun before, but still laughed when Harry told it to him that evening.)

Speaking of Sirius. Harry had gladly obeyed his godfather's request to let Kreacher 'spoil' him, so as to keep the elf from interfering in the Weasley collective's combined cleaning efforts. What this meant was, while the others beat dust out of drapes and dealt with infestations of doxies and rats, deep-cleaning room by room, Harry luxuriated in the piping-hot bathwater of a tub in his  _ new private suite, _ one floor up from his friends', with snacks on his left and drinks on his right.

And when he had drowsed enough of the day away, Harry yawned, stretched, and dressed in whatever Kreacher laid out for him (usually silks, the elf liked silks) and practically floated downstairs to join the rest of the household for dinner; eating with them, if not the same food as them.

(Kreacher continued to sneak blood into at least one item on Harry's plate at each meal. He seemed to take no small pleasure of his own in providing things Harry... _ liked.) _

At first Ron had complained at the unfairness of it all, but Sirius took everyone aside to fill them in on 'Mission Distract Kreacher' after dinner that day while Harry requested new bedsheets. The explanation reduced further commentary to questioning glances across the table, and half-amused staring at the increasingly-complicated outfits Kreacher was dressing Harry up in.

_ "Lace," _ Ron snorted into his pudding on the fifth day. Sirius had taken one look at Harry's (admittedly very lacy) over-robe and had to leave the room.

Perhaps the most interesting reaction had come from Walburga Black's portrait, late on the same day as the Lace Incident. Harry had gone to greet Tonks at the door and close the curtains around the shrieking portrait, still wearing the lacy over-robe, and when the old painting saw him, she cut off her own rant to stare at Harry with raised eyebrows.

Thinking quickly, Harry put a finger to his lips and winked at the portrait, drawing the curtains before anyone set her off again - such as Tonks, who was trying desperately to keep it together in the entryway. The Metamorphmagus gave an appreciative nod with regard to Walburga and stumbled past without saying anything else.

Several hours later, however, Harry returned downstairs to draw back the curtains again and make good on his implied promise to visit with Walburga's portrait. He had frantically studied the etiquette book Kreacher left on his nightstand in the interim, and thus managed, this time, the deferential nod and greeting that Black tradition indicated Walburga was due.

It worked well. "Kreacher has spoken highly of you, young Harry," the portrait simpered, baring yellowed teeth in a smile. "Why, it has been years since there was a proper Black in the house..."

Days later, struggling to keep still while Kreacher combed cosmetic potions into his hair, Harry still wasn't sure whether he regretted that move. On the one hand, the portrait had stopped shrieking as loudly; on the other, Walburga -- or rather, 'Grandmother Wally', Harry shuddered -- insisted on having Harry visit her at least every other day, if not more often, so she could coo at him, fuss over his appearance ("try and let that hair of yours grow out, grandson, it will tie back nicely once it is long"), and interrogate him about 'the state of things out there'.

(He'd mentioned the 'grandson' bit to Sirius, and the man had gone a bit green at the edges. "Merlin," his godfather muttered, "she must think I  _ stole  _ you from the Potter line. Don't say anything to correct her for now...")

"Young Master is collagen-deficient," Kreacher muttered under his breath, his knobby fingers rubbing yet another oil into Harry's scalp. "A serving of bone broth with breakfast and supper, Kreacher thinks, and gelatin desserts..."

"...What sort of bone?" Harry murmured, shivering slightly in a way unrelated to the tickling of hands on his scalp.

"Kreacher believes the young master ought to know already," was the elf's conspiratorial reply.

_ The young master gets what he wants, _ went unspoken between them.


	8. Impressive.

_ "...What sort of bone?" Harry murmured, shivering slightly in a way unrelated to the tickling of hands on his scalp. _

_ "Kreacher believes the young master ought to know already," was the elf's conspiratorial reply. _

In the morning, Harry found a small bowl of translucent broth on his nightstand, steaming where it sat between a pitcher of water and a thin-sliced pear. Just the sight of it sent goosebumps down his arms and back, raised the hairs on the back of his neck. His heart was in his throat.  _ Is that really..? _

He reached for the pitcher first, quenching his thirst on the faintly metallic ( _ oh _ ) water; slid one sticky-sweet pear slice down his throat, barely chewing it; and only then, took the palm-sized bowl between faintly trembling hands, and raised its smooth ceramic to his lips.

Heat suffused his cheeks, and not only because the broth itself was warm. Harry savored each mouthful, quite aware of the tightening in his lower abdomen. He recognized several of the herbs and spices, but the core of the flavor was unlike anything he'd ever tasted - and it went down so smoothly, so readily, leaving a thin, salty oil behind for him to lick off his lips.

The small appreciative noise that escaped his throat echoed against the walls in the total silence of Harry's bedroom, and his face flamed, terribly embarrassed. Who knew who could be listening? But... "Bloody hell," Harry breathed, voice strained. "More of that, Kreacher," he demanded aloud in a more steady tone, and bit his lip as the bowl refilled.

Ron came by later, when Harry had washed away the  _ unfortunate  _ mess he'd made and was soaking in the tub with a face mask on. His girlish shriek startled Harry out of a comfortable daydream - they laughed at each other, then  _ with  _ each other, until his friend got himself under control enough to say what he'd come up there for.

"Kreacher's locked Mum out of the kitchen all morning," Ron said. "D'you have any idea what he might be up to?"

_ Bone broth, _ Harry thought, repressing a smile. "I might have asked about chocolate cake," he suggested, affecting a sheepish expression. It wasn't technically a lie; he  _ might  _ have, if he'd thought of it earlier. "Since we missed my birthday by a couple of days, and all." He reached for the tall, narrow water glass beside the tub. "You guys  _ did  _ get breakfast though, right?"

"Yeah, Mum brought stuff back from the Burrow."

That was a relief. Harry offered Ron a smile, which from the latter's expression, came out more frightening than intended. "Takeaway for lunch, then, yeah?"

Ron looked confused. "What's takeaway?"

Did Harry want to spend ten to twenty minutes defining it in terms Ron would understand, or did he want a nap? "Muggle food stuff, Hermione can explain it better than me - I never got to eat any." There, that would free him of obligation.

His friend eyed him. "You know, Harry," he started slowly, "I know you're letting Kreacher spoil you on purpose to distract him, but we haven't really seen you much lately. It's kind of weird when we live in the same house, mate." He glanced at the stack of individually-wrapped chocolate bonbons on a dish beside the water glass. "I'm not  _ jealous _ or anything, but..."

(He totally was, though. Harry could tell.) "You know I'd share if I could," Harry sighed, "but you know how he is. Asking would probably just ruin the whole thing, and then we'd be back at square one."

Ron shrugged, accepting the half-apology for what it was. He turned to leave, and Harry had a Very Good Idea. "You know what, mate," he spoke up, freezing the redhead at the door, "I'll  _ have _ to share the cake, since it's for a party, right? So there's that to look forward to."

Ron's eyes fairly gleamed with excitement.

When he was gone, Harry reached his arm down between the tub and the wall, fingers just reaching the neck of the unlabelled wine bottle he'd been about to open when Ron barged in. A shiver went down his spine, that same visceral thrill as the very first night, at the heat of the glass against his palm, evidence of the warmth of its contents.

A surreptitious locking charm to the door, and a silencing spell for extra privacy...

Harry licked his lips, and uncorked the bottle, sticking his tongue down the neck to taste the first droplets of sweet red inside.  _ "Mmh." _ His toes curled in the bathwater. "Oh, yes..."

"Harry, is that y- AAH!" Sirius nearly toppled the sofa in the living room, knocking against the coffee table. "Bloody hell, I thought you were my mum!"

Harry raised a hand to his cheek, and realized he'd forgotten to take off the face mask. "Bugger," he muttered, "sorry, Siri-"

"Are those  _ curlers _ in your hair?" his godfather interrupted, covering his mouth with his hand.

Harry blinked, raising his hand up to feel - yes, he'd forgotten to take those out, too.

_ Why did I come down here again? _ he despaired.

He was also - Harry looked down - wearing a green quick-drying bathrobe and a pair of matching slippers.

"The 1950s called," Sirius wheezed, "they want their spa kit back!"

"I look like a better version of Gilderoy Lockhart," Harry groaned, splaying his hands out over his face.

Sirius was rolling on the floor, clutching at his stomach, tears of mirth making his eyeliner run.

"It's not  _ that _ funny," Harry griped.

_ "Not that funny," _ Sirius wheezed, clutching at the rug. He was still shaking with silent laughter, which worsened every time he looked at Harry.

Harry held out one hand in the air, the other still over his brow. "Kreacher, a water glass," he demanded.

At least throwing the water on his godfather made him feel better.

"You know, I  _ actually _ came down to ask if you wanted cake," pouted Harry. "I don't know when it'll be ready, but there'll be more than enough for you and Ron and 'Mione. And Remus if he gets back later."

_ That _ shut him up. Sirius sat up, blinking at him like he'd seen the light. "Cake?"

"Kreacher is making cake to young master's specifications," came the house-elf's croaking voice from behind Harry. "Kreacher has come to inquire what sort of icing suits young master's mood."

"Erm," Harry blinked. The cake  _ wasn't _ a lie? "That shiny pour-over chocolate icing that turns solid, I guess?"

"Master is referring to a mirror glaze," Kreacher dutifully informed him.

"Yeah, that's it," Harry nodded.

"Is young master desiring more of his breakfast?" Kreacher asked next.

"Yes," Harry said, too quickly.  _ Merlin fuck, more of that broth right now- _

He took a seat on one of the armchairs, all thoughts of going and getting properly dressed forgotten as the dish appeared in his lap: another sliced pear, arranged around the shining, perfect broth. Harry took greedy gulps of the stuff, interspersed with slices of pear; the bowl obligingly refilled before he even had to ask.

At some point, Sirius must have gotten up off the floor, for he was watching Harry with narrowed eyes when he finally set down the bowl for the last time. "Harry," he asked, "are you.. doing all right? With all of this?"

"Totally," Harry said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His godfather shrugged. "Dunno, you just seem a bit different. Not in a bad way, necessarily," he hastened to say, waving his hands, "just, we haven't really seen you much-"

"That's what Ron said earlier."

"You're not, erm, feeling left out, though?" Sirius wondered. "Cooped up in your room - or rooms, rather - all day."

Harry blinked at him. "Not really," he supposed, nibbling at the last slice of pear. "I'm not  _ stuck _ in there, you know? I can come out, I just haven't much." But he could see where Sirius' line of questioning was coming from. "Siri..." he murmured, "are you lonely? Is that what it's about? I can spend more time with you-"  _ it just hadn't occurred to me that I should. _

His godfather flushed, embarrassed, and looked away. "Maybe just a bit," he said quietly.

"Hey," Harry rose from the chair, crossing the room to lay a hand on Sirius' shoulder. "We can hang out later, after cake, all right? You know I don't mean to.. abandon you," he trailed off, beginning to feel guilty.

_ Hadn't it been Sirius' idea in the first place? _ pointed out a small voice in his head.  _ Letting Kreacher 'spoil' you, so he wouldn't bother everyone else? _

Harry shrugged off the question for now, offering his godfather a bright smile before he headed back upstairs. With any luck, no one else would see him roaming the house in this-

Hermione shrieked, passing him on the stairs, and burst into a fit of giggles as a thoroughly embarrassed Harry fled back to his rooms.

Everyone showed up for cake, after dinner - not only Ron, Hermione, and Sirius, but Fred and George and Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley, the latter of whom had been serving dinner at the Burrow for everyone else, given that Kreacher had still locked everyone out of the kitchen at Number Twelve.

Instead, they were all in the rarely-used dining room on the ground floor, the one across from Walburga's portrait (who waylaid Harry in the hall to compliment him on the long hair he'd tied at the nape of his neck with a small bow). Harry had taken the seat at the head of the table, trying not to fidget under everyone's attention.

Fortunately, everyone's eyes went right to the cake itself when it was brought in.

It was unlike Mrs. Weasley's birthday cakes in every way: sleek, unembellished, the chocolate icing so dark it was almost black and mirror-reflective. A single candied flower blossom was laid on top, sugar crystals making the red petals stand out even more against the glaze.

"Kreacher is giving the first piece to young master," the house-elf announced, and cut a sizable slice in order to include the entire flower.

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

The layer of icing inside the cake was a deep blood-red.

There was supposed to be a rule about how long to wait before he started eating, but Harry found he didn't quite give a damn. He had a mouthful of the stuff before anyone could stop him (not that they would), and fought to control his expression before he embarrassed himself worse than he had earlier.

It was  _ perfect. _ Almost obscenely rich, the taste cloying to the roof of his mouth, sticking on his tongue, nothing like the too-sweet desserts at Hogwarts or the disgustingly over-iced way Dudley had always wanted his cakes to be. Harry's toes curled in his shoes, and he was halfway through his slice of cake by the time everyone else's complaints registered in his ears.

"This is terrible!" Fred and George laughed, pushing their plates away. Mrs. Weasley was wrinkling her nose at the thin slice on her plate, lips pursed like she'd eaten a lemon. Ron looked betrayed as he reached for a pitcher of pumpkin juice to fill up his glass.

"..What's wrong with it?" Harry asked quietly.

"It's not sweet enough," Sirius complained.

"It's faintly metallic," Hermione supplied, wincing as she set her fork down.

Ron was still washing his mouth out, but eventually managed to say, in a strangled voice, "Mate, this resembles a good chocolate cake about as much as Malfoy resembles an upstanding member of society."

"It's about as chocolatey-"

"-as a glass of water with a piece of fudge in the bottom."

"The word 'delicious' was written next to it in hopes traits would transfer."

"You know," Harry said through another mouthful, "I realize I don't usually do it, but I could cry. At all your insults to my cake."

"I don't think salt is going to improve the flavor," Sirius sighed.

The good-natured ribbing about Harry's 'terrible taste' ran its course once Hermione suggested they just buy a regular cake in London, and was promptly escorted out to a Tesco by the twins. When conversation had finally turned to other things - like the summer homework Harry hadn't given half a thought to, and Ron's missing chess piece - Harry realized he'd eaten too much to feasibly move for a while. So he sat, feeling a bit like Dudley, until everyone else had gone to bed.

Only then did he make his way back upstairs, bidding 'Grandmother Wally' goodnight as he went. Merlin, he was stuffed full like a Christmas turkey.  _ What if it was all blood? _ Harry imagined suddenly, and felt heat pooling below the waist at the idea. To be this full of the stuff...

There was a half-full bottle hidden behind the bathtub, unless Kreacher had refilled it while Harry was out. He quietly closed the bathroom door behind him, thumbing the latch closed, and reached to unbutton his shirt-

Overhead, from the high window that Harry had never opened, came a gurgle, and he looked up in alarm to see a raven silhouetted against the moonlit sky, a silver ribbon shining on its leg.

"Erm, hello," said Harry. "Is that for me?"

Trilling, the bird hopped down to the rim of the tub and fluffed its feathers. Harry waited until it was holding out its leg again to untie the ribbon.

There was a tiny pouch strung along it, he found - and when Harry had unthreaded it from the ribbon, it gave a faint white glow and began to grow, larger and heavier in his hands, until its true size and shape revealed it to be.. a black velvet drawstring bag, with something solid inside.

Curious, Harry opened it, and slid the contents into his palm.

His breath caught in his chest.

Freed of the black fabric of the bag, there gleamed before him a dagger in a dark leather sheath. Harry carefully unsheathed the weapon, and held it up to the light to see the subtle serration on its wicked edge. When he angled it just so, he could see a tiny snake on the flat of the blade.

There was no note.

Harry didn't need one.


	9. Compulsive.

_ ..there gleamed before him a dagger in a dark leather sheath. Harry carefully unsheathed the weapon, and held it up to the light to see the subtle serration on its wicked edge. When he angled it just so, he could see a tiny snake on the flat of the blade. _

_ There was no note. _

_ Harry didn't need one. _

Harry hid the sheathed dagger in its drawstring bag under his pillow, next to the knife, and lay awake in the bed for hours afterward, unable to sleep.

It was as though a weight had dropped into his stomach the moment he recognized the sender of the.. gift. There was no question of how Voldemort had known about Harry's dubious hobby; obviously, Lucius had told him about the confrontation in the Ministry. This in mind, he really couldn't figure out why Voldemort was giving him a present at all - if Harry had even been meant to perceive it as one, and not a threat.

Keeping it only made sense. Harry didn't know what else to do with it; only that examining the blade's sharp, cruel edge and imagining what it could do made his breath come quick and heated, even more than the fantasies surrounding his original, duller knife. So what if it was from Voldemort, really? The dagger belonged to him now, and it was  _ perfect, _ he could tell, it would go through flesh like it was butter, and blood would spill out hot and sticky and salty-metallic-sweet all over him-

Harry heard a low noise and realized it was coming from his own mouth. He pulled the bedsheet up over his head, turning over onto his stomach so he could rut into the mattress. The motion jostled his pillow aside, revealing the knife and dagger underneath: two opportunities, now, the both of them ripe with dark promise.

He pulled the pillow back over them, closing his eyes imagine something else, something more specific: the confrontation with Lucius Malfoy, replaying in his thoughts tonight the way it had so many nights previous.  _ If I slit your throat, Lucius, would you bleed as blue as you think you should? _

If he slit his throat-

_ -a great gout of red like a fountain, splashing over his face, hot enough to steam in cold air, the taste of it so utterly perfect on his lips- _

"Ah," Harry fisted himself, drool soaking his pillow where he gnawed on it to muffle his voice-

_ hanging the body from the ceiling with its throat cut to let the blood spill down like a shower into the bathtub, where he lay naked underneath- _

As he came down from orgasm, Harry panted against the pillowcase and wondered what he was going to do about all this when term started again at Hogwarts. Did the school have a rule against knives? Could he sneak one in like he had at the Ministry, without getting caught?

Maybe Sirius would know.

Booklists arrived in the morning just before lunch, and the ensuing discussion of school supplies reminded Harry of last night's query. "Never heard of Slinkhard," Sirius commented disparagingly, reading Harry's booklist over his shoulder.

"What book did  _ you  _ have for fifth-year Defense?" Hermione wondered.

Sirius leaned on the back of Harry's chair for a long moment, thinking about it, before he gave a shrug and a sigh. "Blast. Dementors got most of that year, I couldn't really say. I'll try and remember later?"

Sometimes Harry forgot that his godfather had spent long years in Azkaban, and then he remembered. (Would his hobby put  _ him  _ in Azkaban? Surely not, he hadn't done anything illegal himself..) He shivered, changing the subject. "D'you think we can go to Diagon to get our school stuff?"

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Weasley said sharply from where she was tending the soup. "Albus was very clear that you are all to stay here until September first."

That had the Weasley children whining all through lunch - soup, for the rest of them, and double servings of broth, for Harry. Ron had his already dog-eared copy of the latest  _ Quality Quidditch Supplies _ catalog laid out on the table, off on a tangent about a broom attachment advertised to "make even the oldest brooms fly like new", a claim Hermione scoffed at every time he brought it up. ("Proprietary enchantments, my ar- my _ foot!") _

As Fred, George, and Ginny started a loud discussion over the advertisement for the umpteenth time, Harry took his opportunity to slip out of the room, catching Sirius' eye as he went.

He waited for his godfather to sneak out, then led Sirius up two flights of stairs to the dining room nobody ever used - one of the few places in the house that didn't have eavesdropping portraits, Harry had discovered. When the door was closed behind them, Harry took a seat in one of the nearest chairs. "Padfoot, can I ask you something weird?"

Even out of his Animagus form, Sirius' ears perked up. "Absolutely, Harry," he beamed, looking ten years younger. "What else are godfathers for? Let me guess - girly mags? Prank magic? Pepper-Uppers?"

Harry blinked at him. "..None of those," he said slowly, "but sorry, what exactly is a Pepper-Upper?"

"Like Pepper-Up Potion, but faster-acting and shorter-lived," Sirius handwaved. "Don't get into them, they're an expensive hobby nowadays - thought you'd found my stash in here, hahaha - anyways," he leaned forward on his elbows, "What's up?"

(This..  _ did  _ somewhat explain why Sirius was so energetic today.) "It's about, erm," Harry stammered, a bit thrown. He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried again. "It's about knives, and bringing them to Hogwarts. You gave me that penknife last year-" not that Harry remembered where it was at the moment - "and I kind of want to start.. collecting them? But I don't know if I can bring a collection to Hogwarts or if I'll get in trouble-"

Sirius cut him off with a chuckle, ruffling Harry's hair. "You're a weird kid," he informed him cheerfully. "You want a knife collection, Har', you can go ahead and get one. Merlin knows how many wizards have done the same over the centuries. And sure, it's a bit  _ frowned upon _ nowadays," he leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes, and crossed his arms behind his head, "but all the cool stuff is. We'll just have to go to Knockturn."

"We can  _ go  _ to Knockturn?" asked harry quietly, incredulous.

"I don't see why not, it's no more risky than me going anywhere else," Sirius shrugged. "I'm 'technically' supposed to be cooped up in here," he made air-quotes around the word, "but if I actually did that I'd go bloody bonkers, have you  _ seen  _ this place? This house is a fucking nightmare."

Harry privately began to understand why Mrs. Weasley called Sirius a bad influence. "When can we go out?"

"How 'bout tonight?" Sirius suggested.

Godric, he loved this man.

Sneaking out of the house at midnight, Harry had to admit that he'd underestimated Sirius' abilities for stealth until now, when he'd had any cause to wonder about them. And his godfather's plan to get them both to Knockturn unmolested ("figuratively or literally," Sirius joked) was a simple one, really: there was a secret entrance to Knockturn Alley that would let them skirt the crowds in the Leaky Cauldron, and once they were in the alley itself, Harry's drastic change in appearance since Kreacher had started spoiling him would make him unrecognizable to any passersby who took an interest.

Kreacher had been more than happy to 'dress the young master for an evening out' when Harry had asked: he wore a close-cut set of black robes, only slightly more modern than what he usually had on in the house, and let the elf comb his hair into sleek waves that tied off with a ribbon at the nape of his neck. He didn't even need to cover his scar: the longer fringe fell right over it, more easily than it ever had in years past. Save for his glasses, Harry looked nothing like the Boy-Who-Lived. It was great.

"I've gotta stop in to the Partridge and Pheasant," Sirius muttered while they navigated the labyrinthine alleyways of Knockturn Alley's secret entrance. "My dealer only shows up when I've been waiting for an hour, and you can't go in with me, so just explore for a bit?"

"Is that.. wise?" Harry had to ask. They rounded another turn to see a red lantern hanging at the far end of the tunnel-like path. "Splitting up, I mean."

In answer, Sirius passed him a small, square mirror. "Part of a paired set," he explained, holding up a second one in his palm. "Two-way mirrors; just call me if anything happens, and I'll come find you."

It was more or less the level of responsibility Harry expected from Sirius; his godfather had always treated him like he could hold his own, and it wasn't like Harry was really  _ afraid  _ of being out after dark. He wasn't exactly a street rat, but he'd been out alone in Little Whinging before, and he'd been fine in Knockturn Alley in his second year. Even if he did get in trouble, he had the dagger in his pocket; he could draw it on his enemy, and, and-

Harry blinked out of his reverie as they passed the red lantern and emerged in the middle of a part of Knockturn Alley that he recognized right away as being close to Borgin and Burkes. The street was surprisingly crowded for the time of night, actually. "See you in a bit," Sirius patted Harry on the shoulder, and a moment later, he'd completely disappeared from Harry's view.  _ Secret entrance to the Partridge and Pheasant? _ Harry guessed.

Which left him quite alone to wander further down Knockturn, hands in his pockets - one held his wand, the other, his dagger. There were lots of interesting shops open only at night; a stained-glass window on what seemed to be the back of a large, fancy building depicted a white wyvern over a mountainous landscape, and one gap between buildings looked to have a thriving street market. But Harry's eyes caught on something else.

Tucked between two buildings was a narrow shopfront with a thin, red door, and the sign over its entryway read  _ Fluids for Sale. _

Did that mean..?

Casting glances up and down the street for anyone who might be watching him, Harry stepped up to the door and turned the knob.

The interior of the shop was larger than the outside - Harry should have expected that, really - and sparsely illuminated by candles on wall brackets and in ceiling chandeliers. Black shelves and black wooden flooring stood out against walls made of white bricks, the displays packed neatly with rows of bottles and phials and vials in various shapes and sizes. It was organized as neatly as Snape's potions stores, and smelled - Harry took a deep breath - pleasant, like a faint perfume. And best of all, there was no one else in the store.

"Good evening," came a voice from the counter at the far end, and Harry revised his observation: there was no one else in the store besides the shopkeeper.

He returned the greeting, drawing nearer to the counter. The shopkeeper was a dark-haired man who looked about thirty, his narrow features vaguely foreign, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt whose first three buttons were conspicuously unbuttoned, giving Harry an ample view of pale collarbones and the beginnings of chest hair-

"What brings you to the dealership?" the man inquired with a smirk, leaning closer to Harry over the counter. "Buying?  _ Selling?" _

Harry blinked, meeting the man's dark eyes. "Erm, just buying," he said. "I need.." he averted his gaze to the side, "..blood."

"Darling," the shopkeeper drawled, and Harry felt a flush creep up his cheeks despite himself at the endearment, "you're going to have to be more specific."

He bit his lip, curling his fingers into the polished wooden countertop. "Human blood." The shopkeeper nodded, as if to say 'go on'. "I don't think it matters what type..? Do they all taste the same?"

The shopkeeper sighed, quietly enough as not to be too rude. "Just to check, you aren't picking up an already-placed order on anyone's behalf, are you?" Harry shook his head. "All right." A smile quirked the man's lips. "How about a sampler set of the different types that you can bring to your friend to choose from? We keep a large supply of them all, O-negative is a particular favorite with the usual crowd, but everyone has their individual tastes."

"Oh, erm, it's not for a friend," Harry clarified. "It's for me."

Now, the man seemed to be seeing him in a new light. "In that case," he purred, gazing at Harry through lowered lashes, "would you like to sample while you're here?"

In.. in front of someone else? Harry felt his cheeks heating. "Yes, please," he swallowed, looking anywhere but at the shopkeeper.

"Excellent, it'll be just a moment," the man smiled, straightening up.

He left Harry at the counter to open a second door, ostensibly to the back rooms. Leaning against the counter, Harry closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He was just perusing wares, this was  _ not  _ the time to get hard,  _ calm down, Harry- _

"Here we are," came the shopkeeper's cheerful voice as he set a gold tray down on the countertop. "The full sampler - A, B, AB, O, positive and negative." The blood was in small bottles, each labelled accordingly; Harry reached for the first one, A positive, and uncorked it, breathing deeply of the familiar aroma. The shopkeeper watched his eyelids flutter closed as he poured out the small mouthful on his tongue, savoring; Harry tried not to make any inappropriate noises, but every sample was as good as the last.

When he opened his eyes again, the shopkeeper was resting on his elbows, chin propped up on his hands. "Goodness," the man purred, "I've seen fledglings on their first sip that don't savor as you do."

Several pieces of information clicked into place where they'd been swirling around in Harry's head, distracted. The shopkeeper was a vampire. Right. That made a lot of sense. "I've.. taken a liking to it, I guess," he said quietly, licking his lips. "My house-elf's been getting it for me, so I don't know where from.."

The vampire blinked. "Oh! You're the Black elf's young master! I had wondered why the old purchase orders had been reinstated - yes, yes, now I see it," he nodded, procuring a crate of bottles from under the counter. "Ah, should've known you'd be a Black, darling, the family's been some of our best customers over the centuries, even before Alphard joined the clan.." he trailed off. "But I digress. Would you like to pick this up now, or have your elf do so in your stead?"

"I s'pose I'll leave it to Kreacher," Harry mused, "but could I get a small bottle to bring with me? Pocket-sized?"

The shopkeeper grinned widely, showing off his fangs. "Absolutely, my dear. And while you're here: to what vault shall I be sending the invoice? Or would you like to pay directly?"

Harry hadn't thought of that. "..How much is it?" he asked, thinking of the coinpurse Sirius had passed him on the way in. "I'd have to check with S- with the head of the family, about vaults, so I'll pay what I have on me for now?"

The shopkeeper quoted him a figure that, if Harry didn't already know Sirius was filthy rich, would have shocked him. As it stood, he didn't quite have that much in the coinpurse, he thought. "..Erm. Right, then."

"If you're uncertain of your funds, we do of course accept exchange," the vampire suggested, sly. "Virgin blood earns quite a pretty penny on the market."

"How'd-" Harry cut himself off before he embarrassed himself. "I guess that works," he agreed.

The shopkeeper set a shallow gold bowl on the countertop, along with an equally-gold knife. "I'll do a pricing assessment," he explained. "Be a dear and prick a finger for me? Just a few drops is plenty."

Harry obliged, slicing the tip of his left index finger and watching the blood well up and drip down into the bowl. He didn't even register the mild pain of it, so enticed by the sight, and only pulled his hand back when the vampire informed him that was "plenty, darling."

He raised the bowl up to his nose and inhaled deeply, as Harry had done with the samples from earlier. But instead of taking a sip, the vampire's eyes blinked open, brow creasing slightly in the middle, and he looked at Harry with narrowed eyes. "Ah, I seem to have guessed wrong," he pursed his lips. "Not virgin blood after all."

"But I've never.." Harry trailed off, heat rushing to his cheeks again.

"Silly dear," the vampire consoled him, "that's not the kind of purity I'm talking about. Common misconception, of course - but virgin blood is that which has not been used in any rituals in the span of a year."

"..Rituals," Harry repeated, realizing. His hand went to the crook of his elbow, where the scar from Wormtail's knife hooked wickedly at the end. "Oh."

"It's still salable as a novelty," the shopkeeper assured him, "especially with.. what kind of venom is that?" He sniffed the blood, sticking the tip of his tongue in it and shivering like it was lemon juice.

"..Acromantula, in the spring?" Harry offered. "And, erm.. Basilisk, two years ago or so."

Well-groomed eyebrows raised.  _ "Really _ now," the shopkeeper purred, leaning in much closer to Harry all of a sudden. "In this day and age - how  _ did  _ you get through that?"

"Phoenix tears," Harry mumbled, fiddling with the wax-sealed cork on the pocket-sized bottle he'd been given earlier. "I got lucky, I guess. Fang pierced me right through the arm." He tugged up the sleeve of his right forearm to show the circular puncture scar.

"Goodness," the vampire murmured under his breath, eyeing the size of the puncture. "Although, I shouldn't be too surprised, considering," he said more quietly, probably not meaning for Harry to hear.

"So, erm, how much will cover the bill?" Harry asked. "A bottle's worth, or..?"

The shopkeeper opened his mouth to reply, but closed it, wide-eyed, just as a hand came to rest upon Harry's shoulder. Harry flinched - how much of this discussion had Sirius heard? - and turned to look at his godfather-

It wasn't Sirius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this ended on a cliffhanger, I have the next chapter mostly finished though so don't worry owo;
> 
> To those wondering why I'm posting so much today - I'm celebrating the birth of a new server by populating their 'fic updates' section ♥♥♥ and how could I justify hoarding all these lovely words to myself when there's hungry readers out there in Ao3?


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